


Midsummer Eve

by Mithen



Category: Lord of the Rings - Fandom, Silmarillion
Genre: Family, Gen, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-04
Updated: 2014-06-04
Packaged: 2018-02-03 09:53:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 766
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1740347
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mithen/pseuds/Mithen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A very young Arwen worries about Glorfindel, who lies ill in his chambers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Midsummer Eve

"But _why_?"

"Don't pout, Arwen," chided her mother, and Arwen tucked her lower lip back in. "Glorfindel is not well, and you must not bother him today."

"But I wanted him to tell me a story," Arwen said. Glorfindel always told the very best stories, full of battles and warriors and curses and dragons and secret cities, and with so much detail! Arwen always felt like she could smell the dust, hear the clash of shields. Once he had told her a story of a beautiful elf-maiden and her beloved and their dog (Arwen had always yearned for a dog), and their search for a jewel--well, it had been a very complicated story, and Arwen hadn't understood large stretches of it. But that night she had dreamed that she was wandering great dark halls, searching for something and weeping. She told her father the next morning and he had called Glorfindel to his study, and they had had one of the few fights she had ever heard them have, and Glorfindel had never told her that story again.

Which was too bad, because she thought it was very beautiful, if sad.

"He will be able to tell you stories again soon enough," her mother said. "Let him rest today."

"Is he sick?" Arwen felt suddenly uneasy. Her favorite pony had gotten sick last year and it had been terrible. "Can't Father heal him?"

Her mother drew her close and kissed her on the brow. "It is not the kind of illness that your father can cure, my dear one." She hesitated, as if unsure whether to continue, then said, "Many, many years ago, before you were born, on this day Glorfindel fought a mighty foe. He defeated it, but…" She paused again. "But his wounds were very great, and every year on this day his spirit feels once more that pain."

"Oh," Arwen breathed. "Poor Glorfindel."

Her mother caressed her hair. "He fell protecting the little boy who became your grandfather. We have always owed him a great debt of gratitude."

"I won't bother him!" Arwen swore, her eyes filling with tears. "I promise!"

"I know, little love."

Arwen remembered the promise as she crept up the stairway to Glorfindel's room an hour later. She _wasn't_ going to bother him, she reminded herself. She just wanted to peek in on him, make sure he was all right.

Glorfindel's quarters were near the top of one of the highest towers in Imladris, open on all sides to the air. Sometimes he would laughingly complain about how the fall leaves piled up, but he seemed to like being high above the earth, nearly touching the sky. Arwen hesitated near the top of the stairs for a moment, then ran lightly up the last few stairs and into Glorfindel's room.

He was asleep on his bed, his golden hair strewn around him, and although his face looked set in lines of pain, his breathing was slow and gentle. As Arwen gazed upon him, he nearly smiled for a moment in his sleep, although there were marks of tears upon his cheeks.

Relieved, Arwen lifted her gaze from her friend--and threw her hands over her mouth to keep from gasping aloud.

Perched on the foot of the bed was a huge eagle, its gaze fixed on the sleeping elf. It was silver as mithril, each feather edged with argent light. At Arwen's stifled gasp, it turned its head to look at her, and she realized it had steel-blue eyes, unearthly bright.

For a long moment the eagle met her eyes, and she saw there wisdom and power, and a sorrow that she could not understand.

And then it threw wide its wings as if to take flight and vanished away entirely.

Her heart pounding, her hands trembling with awe, Arwen hurried back down the stairs. In the distance she could hear the Midsummer Eve hymns beginning, singing to Varda the Star-Kindler as she ran to the library.

Her father looked up in surprise as she burst in and threw herself into his arms. "What is it, sweeting?" he asked, but she just shook her head and held on more tightly. Her heart felt like a locked box filled with light, elated and shaken as Elrond held her and sang quietly to her. "No matter, no matter, little one," her father murmured. "All is well and all shall be well, my little bird, my dearest."

Lulled by the hush of the library and the soft sound of her father's voice, Arwen finally fell asleep in the heart of Rivendell.


End file.
